


Dear Brother Paul

by lembas7



Series: ECverse [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-10
Updated: 2012-03-10
Packaged: 2017-11-01 17:37:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/359498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lembas7/pseuds/lembas7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A birth, and a beginning.</p><p>Prompt: Stories, of course, don't begin with the birth of the protagonist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear Brother Paul

**Author's Note:**

> Set in 1926. Start of the "Elijah's Cup" universe; a crossover which takes the Pevensies from Narnia and into Prisoner of Azkaban, and goes from there. 
> 
> Warning for descriptions of birth. This fic courtesy the above prompt; the title is also the prompter’s invention, for which she has my thanks.

“And now – push!”

The woman strained, face brick-red, skin covered in sweat. And finally, her body yielded the small form that had been fighting free for God only knew how long.

Sister Agnes had been woken, in the late hours of the night, to find a stranger pounding at the convent door – a woman whose belly was swollen with child. A woman panting in labor-pains.

Now, she looked up from the weary, blood-streaked mother slumped upon the thin cot. Gently toweling the small form dry, she spared a smile. The woman, tired and triumphant, smiled back. A quick slap to the tiny rear, and a startled howl filled the room. The woman beamed, breathlessly, reaching for the babe even as Sister Mary coaxed the afterbirth from her.

“A fine, strapping boy.” Agnes quickly tied and cut the cord, wiping the worst of the birth-fluids from the still-screaming features. Reaching arms curled around the babe, even as Sister Rebecca ran a wet cloth over her face, pushing back straggles of dark hair.

Dark hair inherited by her babe, even if the blue eyes were the father’s – and they did not know who he was, yet, though not for lack of asking. Who knew? Babes changed much in the first year – the eyes might darken as well, to match Merope’s.

“What will you name him?” Sister Agnes asked gently. The babe had stopped his squalling, now suckling thirstily.

“Thomas,” Merope sighed, one finger gripped in an unyielding, miniature fist. “For his father.” Her face crumpled a moment, and she kissed soft, dark hair, crooning wordlessly. Sister Agnes saw the pain, and did not push. “Marvolo for his grandfather. Thomas Marvolo Riddle.”

“A fine name,” Sister Rebecca smiled, gently stealing the woman’s attention.

Sister Agnes plunged her hands into a nearby bowl of water, scrubbing away the blood. This small cell in the convent was empty; perfect, when the whole house was raised in the efforts of boiling water and finding clean cloths. But only the three of them had stayed. Sister Hannah was awake in the kitchen with her candle, boiling water still. Perhaps she should send –

A light touch on her arm.

Sister Agnes turned, drying her hands, to find an equally exhausted Sister Mary at her elbow. Worry was etched on her face.

“I can’t stop the bleeding.”

Three hours later, Merope Gaunt Riddle was dead, her babe wetnursing from another woman taking sanctuary at the convent, and kind enough to share her milk.

And Sister Agnes, heartsore and weary, was at the desk in her office, composing a letter to the head of the diocese’s orphanage, in London. The infant had relations – but no parents, with Merope dead. And they needed to make arrangements for her.

They would contact the grandparents, but until then – it was the best place for him.

_Dear Brother Paul,_

_I am called by God to beg your assistance in the matter of an infant, Thomas Marvolo Riddle, born December 31, 1926. . . ._


End file.
